Is there a point to all this?
Some sense of release hidden behind years of
Doubtful ventures into nothing.
Can I outstretch these fastened wings,
And search for some greater feeling,
Than hopelessly just being?
Must I have my own permission,
To evolve outside this vacuum?
Become anything more than just myself?
Help starts in the home, but I can't help asking:
Where do I go from here,
After letting go of everything?
Does something better lie in wait,
Some cleverly disguised outlier?
Or am I only to be met by pain, my solemn-sought companion?
Is there anything besides empty space,
Behind spinning thoughts and broken canvases?
Or are we alone here, at the end of the line?